


Say It With Flowers

by argyle4eva



Series: Wise As Serpents, Innocent As Doves [9]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Gardening, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, ineffable valentines, ineffablevalentines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:22:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22521706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argyle4eva/pseuds/argyle4eva
Summary: Crowley does a bit of gardening in the South Downs. It’s not as peaceful an activity as you might think.Written for Mielpetit/mielpetite'sIneffable Valentines prompt list, Day 2 - Roses/Flowers (I decided to try and work in both prompts of the pair wherever I could).This will be a mix of shorter and longer bits, some a few hundred words, some 1K+, all within the "Wise As Serpents" universe, with a few loosely connected sub-threads running through the Valentine's challenge grouping.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Wise As Serpents, Innocent As Doves [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535606
Comments: 12
Kudos: 65
Collections: Ineffable Valentines 2020





	Say It With Flowers

“Right,” Crowley said in a grim voice, pulling on his leather gardening gloves as if donning armored gauntlets. “This isn’t going to be fun for either of us, but it has to be done.”

The rambling rose Crowley was addressing rattled its leafless winter canes aggressively in response.

Crowley bared his teeth in an answering threat and picked up the pruning shears.

Over the years, the rambler had spread largely unchecked, covering the standalone garage at Wattle Cottage, trailing along a goodly part of the titular wattle fence surrounding the property, and covering the left-hand gatepost as well. This was the first late-winter pruning that had taken place in years, and there was a lot of deadwood to address, as well as the matter of keeping the garage useable.

That part involved cutting living canes, and the rambler objected strenuously.

“I need to be able to reach my car,” Crowley snarled, wrestling with the wiry, whippy, thorn-covered branches. “Don’t fight me on this you _will not_ win.”

Eventually, after a great deal of swearing from both sides, Crowley stepped back and pulled off his gloves. The pile of winter prunings had grown considerably (he’d worked on the apple tree the day before; sleepy and good-natured, it had hardly noticed), and the rambler was starting to look properly cared for.

It glared at him, as much as a woody plant could, and wrapped itself more tightly around its holdings.

Crowley sucked at a bleeding scratch on his knuckle, from a thorn that had pierced leather as if it were muslin, and nodded in approval.

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he said, in a voice dripping with irony.

The rose remained still and sullen. Plants, animals, and inanimate objects that spent any time around real magic tended to develop an attitude, but the rambler’d already had plenty going in.

Crowley exhaled. “Well, at least you’re going to like this next bit.”

He moved on to the small pile of lumber by the front gate, set up the ladder, and began working.

It wasn’t really a _gate_ as such: just two upright posts, marking the ends of the wattle fence at the entrance to the property, a third again taller than Crowley, framing a gap large enough to admit a vehicle, but not much wider, with no actual door in place. Crowley didn’t fancy opening and closing a gate all the time anyway, so he had a different idea for securing the property above and beyond the magical wards already in place.

He worked with minimal tool use, relying more on his artificer’s skills and ability to shape and fit things precisely with his bare hands. Beams curved gracefully at his touch, boards fitted into place without nails - but solidly enough that the join would hold until the wood itself crumbled - and a slatted arch began to take shape, between the gateposts.

More of the garden took an interest as he worked, rousing sleepily at the unaccustomed activity.

When the arch was complete, Crowley tidied up, then stood in front of the rambler, hands on his hips.

“There – that’s for you.” He gestured at the arch. “Your job, this next summer, is to grow over it. As much as you want, so long as I can still get the car in and out. Right over to the fence on the other side, and as far along that as you can go. Here’s the part you’ll really like – if anyone besides myself or Aziraphale tries to come in without a good reason, you can have at them. No mercy. Sound like something you can handle?”

The rambler was stunned. Its two driving goals in life were to 1) take over as much new territory as possible, and 2) cause opportunistic bloodshed, and it was being given a free hand (or leaf) to indulge in both beyond its wildest vegetable dreams. It managed a rustle of agreement

The rest of the garden was properly impressed. The rambler was the second-oldest thing in the yard, after the apple tree, and greatly looked up to by its herbaceous kin.

“Good.” Crowley nodded briskly. “Annnd, I think that’s enough gardening for the day.” He glanced around. “I’ll start on the rest of you lot tomorrow.” His tone hovered between a promise and a threat. (The flowerbeds perked up, hopeful. It’d been a long time since they’d had a proper clearing out.) “But now I’m going in for a cuppa with Aziraphale. And possibly a blood transfusion. Crowley out.”

\---

The next morning, while Crowley was still in bed, a snoring cocoon of blankets, Aziraphale puttered around the kitchen making tea for himself. He’d had a good night, working on his translations while Crowley slept snuggled up against him, and he looked forward to more transcribing today.

As he opened the fridge for some cream, he glanced out the kitchen window to see if the bird feeder needed filling and his eye was caught by an unexpected splash of color in the yard.

Frowning, he closed the fridge and moved closer to the window, leaning over the sink and squinting at the bright blot of crimson among the subdued greys and tans of winter. He knew what it looked like, but in February?

He wrapped his dressing gown more tightly against the chill, swapped slippers for shoes, and went outside.

As he crunched across the dry winter grass, he could see that, yes, it was a rose. Just one, blooming on bare, empty canes, not even a leaf in sight yet. _How very odd._

As he got closer the rambler rustled slightly, as if shaken by a breeze (though the air was perfectly still) and the single bloom turned a bit in Aziraphale’s direction. He didn’t have Crowley’s gift for speaking with the plant kingdom, but he could tell when he was being addressed.

“Er, hello,” he said. “It’s lovely, but the timing is odd, isn’t it?”

The bloom wiggled again, invitingly.

“I’m . . . meant to take it?” Aziraphale asked, extending a cautious hand. The rambler liked him, and had never drawn blood, but he’d seen what it could do others and was always respectful.

Another pronounced rustle. Aziraphale got the impression the rambler was speaking slowly, loudly, and clearly in hopes of getting the point across to someone who was a bit dim. “Oh! It’s for Crowley?”

An enthusiastic affirmative to that. Aziraphale had just barely touched the stem when the bloom broke free. He held it gently, and told the rambler, “I’ll see he gets it.” He smiled. “I’m sure he’ll be very pleased.”

The rambler settled back on its roots, satisfied.

\---

In the kitchen, Aziraphale rifled through the cupboards. He had a few vases, since he was fond of cut flowers on occasion, but they were all too large for a single rose. He could magic something up, but didn’t want to have to keep thinking about it so that it would hold its form.

Finally, he settled on a miniature white porcelain pitcher, intended to hold cream. Filled with water, and a pinch of sugar to help the flower last, it was the perfect size for a single crimson rose.

Aziraphale set it on the kitchen table and smiled, nudging it this way and that to get it properly centered. The fragrance was already filling the kitchen, blending nicely with the scent of tea.

Aziraphale settled in with his tea and newspaper, then, in a bit, more tea and another of the age-browned papyrus scrolls he’d been transcribing lately, transferring the ancient text to his notebook.

When Crowley, yawning, padded into the kitchen and stopped, Aziraphale glanced up over the rims of his reading glasses. Crowley was frowning at the rose.

“Where’d that come from?” he asked. “Aziraphale . . .?”

“I’m just the messenger,” Aziraphale told him. “I believe it’s a peace offering from your thorny friend out in the garden.” He gestured with his pen.

Crowley padded closer, almost cautiously, and Aziraphale suppressed a smile.

Over tea the afternoon before, he’d gotten the full, blow-by-blow account (suitably dramatized, he was sure) of the Great Rambling Rose Pruning Battle As Narrated By Anthony J. Crowley. It had been a thrilling tale, and Aziraphale responded with all the proper, encouraging noises of, “Oh, dear!” “My goodness!” and “What happened next, love?” followed by kissing away each and every scrape and scratch, one by one. The rambler was an old enough variety to have a bit of venom in its thorns, making wounds that puffed and itched, but none of that was a match for a former angel’s healing powers.

Carefully, Crowley reached out to stroke one crimson petal, growing bolder when it didn’t bite him. He leaned forward to inhale the perfume, then glanced out the window where some of the rambler’s grey-green, ropy canes were visible. “Huh,” he said quietly. “Pax. Until next pruning season, I guess.”

“I’m sure you can re-negotiate,” Aziraphale told him, closing his notebook on the pen, to mark his place, and rolling aside the scroll. “Coffee, love?”

**Author's Note:**

> In the "Wise As Serpents" verse, Crowley develops a healthier attitude towards plants and gardening than he has in canon - a bit more along the lines of "grumpy but beloved boss" than "capricious, angry god." I still thought it might be entertaining to give him a floral antagonist of sorts, in the form of a rambling rose based on the one I take care of at my rental home. Mine's less sentient and talkative, but every bit as much of a bastard (however, for 2 weeks every June it's covered with bright pink blooms the size of my hand, so I end up forgiving it).


End file.
